Moments later, he used the broom and dustpan, and then the vacuum, too. The minutes turned to an hour of anguish. He washed her dishes that were piled up in the sink—the ones lucky enough to avoid her violent episode. He cleaned her counters, straightened up her bedroom, and washed her filthy bathtub.
His joints hurt, the muscles under his skin tightened, and he drew stiff as he dumped himself next to her on the couch. They sat there in silence. She undid the ponytail, allowing the limp tresses to fall against her shoulders. He could smell the booze practically oozing out of her pores. The stench of stale cigarettes hung in the air and when he looked at her, really looked at her, he could see the oiliness of her hair.
She probably hasn’t washed it in days…
With a shaking hand, he brushed a few wayward strands away from her face, tucking them behind her ear. She smiled at him, showing small teeth like a child’s—a kinked smile with sullen, sad eyes.
“You know I don’t mean it, Aiden,” she whispered, sounding much like a little girl. Her light blue eyes swam against watery pink ponds. Her eyelashes were webbed with fresh tears as she blinked several times, but he wasn’t certain if those tears were for her, or for him.
“I know you don’t, Mom… I know. You need help. You’re killin’ me and Perry, it’s not just about you anymore. It really never was.” He sighed and looked away. Resting his elbows on his thighs, he looked down at his shoes. He wished he had it in him to feel anything but anger. He wished he could break himself down to a level where he was able to turn to her and tell her how much he loved her, but he simply couldn’t. It would do no good, and he saw no point in wasting tears on the matter. Just then, a memory from his childhood flashed in his mind…
Their old house was big. The rooms seemed to go on forever in his little mind. He remembered smiling, his missing teeth on full display as he and Perry raced up and down the warped, wooden hallway yelling and screaming with joy and youthful exuberance. They could barely keep their balance on their skateboards as their giggles echoed throughout the place. It was just him and Perry all the time; he was often too embarrassed to have any friends over. Mom was often drunk, strung out, her clothing in disarray. From her mouth spewed profanity, hatred for the world, and the vileness of a million demons. She had inherited Grandma’s old house; it was a beaut and the talk of the town but they lost it after a few years due to unpaid back taxes. He was the happiest in that house, on that land, away from everyone. Just him and Perry in their own little world, until Mom came and made it all crash down…
“I went to work today, Aiden… It was a bad day. I came home early.”
He nodded in understanding and leaned back on the couch, then looked up at the ceiling.
“Sounds like it, Mom. Sounds like it was a really bad day for everyone. I know one thing, though.” Sliding his hand over to hers, he grabbed and squeezed it. “I don’t think I can keep doing this. I feel like every time Perry calls me, I drown a little. I go down, a foot at a time, in the water. In a minute, I’ll be gone, all the way. I am not going to keep running to save you, Mom. I can’t… I can’t.” He took a deep breath as his chest drew tight. Panic gripped him. After a few minutes, he got to his feet, bent down and kissed her forehead. Then, he shut off the lights and left the building to drive away into the night…
CHAPTER THREE
She Looks Like a Movie Star, Like a Chocolate Candy Bar
The building looked rather unassuming.
Addison wasn’t certain what she’d expected. Perhaps a large, magnificent office structure, ten floors minimum with fancy windows and a lobby that boasted of high ceilings, plush seating, and a huge flat-screen television showing weather and traffic updates. Instead, she was faced with something rather ordinary. There could not have been more than five floors, the outside painted in drab gray, or perhaps pewter was a better descriptor. The parking lot was filled with various makes and models of vehicles, some of a higher caliber, others that looked as if they might have rolled in on a prayer. Parking her navy-blue Bentley next to a 1995 Toyota Corolla, she walked swiftly through the cool air, face down, trying to beat the wind to its next brutal punch.
The glass double doors swung open and she stepped inside, pleased to see a glossy white floor she was certain she’d slip on if not cautious. But, at least it was pretty. Taking careful steps, she made her way to the elevator, almost falling over when a small crowd of people brushed past her as if she were a ghost, invisible to the naked eye.
Her heels were barely broken in. She hated heels, but wanted to look the part—an active member of the corporate world. Or any world, quite honestly. She’d dolled herself up, applied a muted mauve matte lipstick, contour and highlights, and her hair was gelled back into a conservative style.
She felt good in her outfit—a knee-length cobalt blue skirt with matching blazer and a cream blouse. A delicate diamond necklace and earrings set completed the look. Upon entering the elevator, she covered her nose. The distinct odor of shit, or perhaps just a nasty fart, filled the air. The other two people in there didn’t seem to notice the nauseous aroma. They wore pleasant smiles and even engaged in small talk, but she found it stomach-churning.
One of them did it, no doubt.
She rolled her eyes at the two suspects. Once the doors opened, she gasped, taking a deep inhale and exhale after holding her breath for so damn long, she was certain she’d turned a horrid shade of red. Quickly pulling herself together, she placed one foot in front of the other and made her way to the front desk. A woman sat behind a computer, her dark brown wavy hair pulled into a loose up do and clipped with a gold clasp. The young lady cocked her head to the side and looked up at her, a smile spread across her pale face, warming her cheeks with a bright pinkish hue.
“Hi, I’m here to—”
The phone rang. The woman’s smile faded a tad as she held up one finger as if to say, ‘hold on’, and answered. While the receptionist spoke with the caller, Addison took a look around the place. Almost every plastic seat had an ass planted in it. A variety of people, mostly White, either filled out paperwork, played on their phone, watched The Price is Right on the TV screen, or stared off into space. None of them looked particularly enthused, and she sure couldn’t blame them. In her mind, this was an admittance of failure. You couldn’t cut it on your own, couldn’t get someone to hire you for the career you desired; it was the final ditch effort to turn a mess into a miracle. If you were here then you’d reached rock bottom in an act of pure desperation.
“Ma’am? How can I help you?”